


Sunday Morning Sweatpants

by LadyDrace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Derek is a Failwolf, Embarrassment, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Ogling, Sweatpants, and an asshole, dick - Freeform, going commando
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:37:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Derek is a Failwolf and kind of an asshole, but Stiles likes him that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning Sweatpants

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [Jimmy](http://perichareia.tumblr.com) who wanted some sweatpants-dick, inspired by [gifs like these](http://hellboner.tumblr.com/tagged/sweatpants%20dick). SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG, I AM SCUM!

It's about seven AM when Stiles very nearly falls off the couch Lydia so meticulously picked out for the renovated Hale house. The thing is, Stiles _knows_ Derek by now, after dozens of shared near-death experiences, as well as almost two years of relative peace. Stiles would go so far as calling them friends, and he thinks he has a decent enough handle on who Derek is. Strong, passionate, slow to let people in for a lot of good reasons, but desperately loyal once he does. Stiles also happens to know for a fact that Derek is a lot less broken than he thinks he is. Sure, he's an asshole more often than not, but then again, so is Stiles. He's the last person to judge for bad attitude, and frankly Stiles likes this Derek. The surly, moody and stubborn werewolf who got a million times more likable once he stopped being an alpha.

 

But Stiles is completely unprepared for the Derek who shuffles into the living room, sleep-mussed and barefoot, greeting Stiles with a yawn. Despite having stayed the night on the couch at Derek's house several times after pack nights drawing late, or falling asleep over the latest research while the wolves were out romping in the woods, Stiles has never seen Derek anything but completely alert. He's seen him muddy, bloody, sick, enraged and a million other things, but always with a certain stiffness to him. A sense of being ready for anything at all times. Unless Derek is literally passed out, he's always on guard.

 

This Derek, though... this Derek is soft. Open. _Vulnerable_. He's in sleep-wear, soft-washed and slightly frayed at the seams, his hair is all over the place, and he's still got sleep-crud in his eyes. Stiles might be gaping slightly. Even after several years, Stiles has never seen this particular side of Derek, and he's floored by the trust it implies.

 

Derek ignores him, first puttering to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice before coming back to the living room, pinching Stiles' toes until he yelps and pulls his feet away so Derek can sit down. Stiles is definitely gaping now.

 

“What?” Derek asks without even looking at Stiles, instead cracking open the book he'd left on the coffee table the night before.

 

“Nothing!” Stiles croaks, his voice coming out like a pathetic peep until he clears his throat. “Nothing at all!”

 

Derek slouches back into the couch, making himself comfortable as he reads, and Stiles just cannot stop staring. There's a loose thread at the collar of the old and oversized t-shirt Derek is wearing, and the legs of the mottled gray sweatpants pool on the floor around Derek's feet, too long, and frayed from the dragging at the heels. It's the very picture of Sunday morning lazing about, and to combine that image with Derek Hale might just be what finally breaks Stiles' brain.

 

Judging from how comfortable and relaxed he is, Stiles guesses that Derek has done this before, but probably only when he's alone, normally choosing to not show his face outside of the bedroom until he's dressed and ready, or at least more awake. Stiles feels strangely honored to be allowed this.

 

“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” Derek grumbles without heat, and Stiles feels his cheeks flush, but it's still impossible for him to look away.

 

“And miss the live show?” he retorts weakly, and Derek snorts, still not sparing Stiles as much as a glance. Instead he lifts one leg to the couch and settles in more comfortably in the corner between the back and armrest. And because Stiles' life sucks, this is the exact moment he realizes that Derek is going commando.

 

The sweatpants are washed thin and are at least one size too big, which means that when Derek's legs fall open, the fabric drapes in a way that makes it absolutely impossible to miss the outline of his cock resting fat and slightly to the left against his leg. Stiles kinda wants to shove his whole face up against it.

 

Not that he hasn't already seen Derek in various states of undress over the years, but this is different. This is Derek _choosing_ to be loose and comfortable around Stiles, trusting him enough to let his guard down, and no matter how much Stiles has shamelessly objectified Derek in the past, it has always been a pipe dream and something he wasn't even entirely sure he wanted, much like his passion for Lydia, perfect at a distance but never a realistic option.

 

But faced with this casual display, Stiles feels suckerpunched, and all of a sudden his attraction seems all too real and _possible_. As if he could lean over and touch, kiss, and breathe Derek in, and _not_ get punched in the face for it. It leaves him breathless, and he remains frozen in shock until Derek clears his throat, and Stiles looks up to find that Derek is looking at him. And he's been staring at Derek's dick for the past few minutes. Stiles desperately hopes the couch will come alive and eat him so he won't have to face his mortification.

 

“Uhm,” he says stupidly, and Derek narrows his eyes at him before going back to his book. Stiles feels his jaw drop, because no way did Derek just let him off the hook like that. _No way_.

 

Derek shifts slightly, as if getting more comfortable in his seat, but all it does is push his cock forward, leaving it even more on display than before. Stiles kinda hates him for it, about as much as he hates himself for being completely unable to stop staring. Fuck his life. It's not like Stiles is sixteen anymore, but his dick doesn't seem to care, perking up with complete disregard for Stiles' peace of mind, no matter how much he tries to think of Finstock in a mankini.

 

There's another minute shift, which pulls the sweatpants taut across Derek's lap, away from his cock, and Stiles breathes a quiet sigh of relief for about two seconds, until Derek reaches down to absentmindedly scratch at his thigh, and in the process loosens the fabric again, bringing it right back to its obscene clinging. Stiles curses the universe for how much it obviously hates him.

 

The third time Derek shifts, Stiles flicks his eyes up to Derek's face (because seriously, does he have a butt itch or something!?) and just manages to catch a tiny smirk before it's gone again.

 

“You asshole!” Stiles blurts. “You're totally doing that on purpose!”

 

“Doing what?” Derek sounds exactly like always, deadpan and unimpressed, but Stiles doesn't miss the slight crinkle in the corner of his eye.

 

“That! You're totally trying to... to...”

 

“To what?” He asks innocently, and this time there's an actual smile pulling at his mouth.

 

Stiles fumes. “You know damn well _what_ , and just so you know, you suck!”

 

Derek snorts, and dammit, Stiles totally didn't mean to make an innuendo here, and he's feeling a little lost as to how he's supposed to deal with a Derek who actually catches bad jokes before he does.

 

They glare at each other for a while, and eventually Stiles backs down, because fair is fair, he was in fact the one who kept staring. “All right, all right, I get it, I'll keep my eyes up here,” he grumbles, waving his hands in the general direction of Derek's face.

 

Derek frowns at him slightly before shrugging and going back to his book. Stiles just rolls his eyes, because it's typical Derek to just not say stuff, though Stiles is more used to being chewed out when he's being a little shit.

 

To avoid staring anymore, Stiles instead gets up and makes coffee, but to make sure there are no hard feelings he does go back and joins Derek on the couch again to drink it. But just to be safe he takes out his phone and keeps his eyes busy with that. He hears Derek shift again, and forces himself not to look. Only, it happens again. And again. And yet again. Finally Stiles loses it and whirls around to glare at Derek.

 

“Okay, what?! What am I doing to offend you?! And please use your words this time, because I don't speak fluent _dick_!” Pun totally intended this time.

 

“Nothing,” Derek mumbles, and this time he seems cranky, which makes no sense at all. “You're not offending me.”

 

“Then why the hell are you scooting around like a dog on a carpet?!”

 

“ _Now_ you're offending me.”

 

“Great!” Stiles snaps. “Progress! Now tell me what else I'm doing wrong so you can stop toying with my pathetic urges.”

 

This makes Derek look at him, eyebrows climbing. “I wasn't... toying.”

 

Stiles scoffs. “Yeah right, like you weren't having a good laugh in your head over giving me a boner just by being... like that,” he says weakly, gesturing at Derek's... everything. _Ugh_.

 

“A boner, huh?” Derek says innocently, and screw him, that is uncalled for.

 

“Screw you.”

 

“Ask me nicely,” comes the deadpan reply.

 

There's a long, tense moment where Stiles feels his jaw dropping lower and lower, because what the hell is _up_ with Derek?!

 

“Did someone slip you magic mushrooms or something?” Stiles asks warily.

 

Derek frowns slowly. “No?”

 

“You don't sound too sure.”

 

“I don't think so. I feel fine.”

 

Stiles squints at him, trying to find signs of a curse or something, and after a few seconds of staring Derek sighs and gets up. “I think I'm gonna get dressed,” he says gruffly, and Stiles sags with relief.

 

“See?! There's the Sourwolf I know!”

 

Derek stops and narrows his eyes at Stiles. “You... _like_ when I'm being an asshole?”

 

“Oh, so you're aware of it! Good, I did worry sometimes that I was projecting,” Stiles babbles, trying not to stare at the vague outline of sweatpants-dick barely two feet from his face. He fails, of course, and Derek notices, _of course_. He moves slightly closer, and Stiles rips his eyes off the junk. “So yeah, you should probably get dressed!”

 

“This is my house. I should just kick you out,” he snarls, and that is actually reasonable, so Stiles just nods fervently, and starts gathering up his stuff which has magically spread over half the living room as usual.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Uh...” Stiles slowly comes to a stop, arms full of books and various electronics. “Leaving?”

 

“Why?” Derek sounds genuinely baffled, and Stiles groans before dropping his stuff back onto the coffee table.

 

“Okay, now I'm confused too. Do you want me to leave or not?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay, good, actual answers. So what do you want me to do? Make myself scarce or just shut the hell up?”

 

“Why would I-” Derek starts but cuts himself off. “I don't want you to do anything. You're my guest, you can do what you like.”

 

Stiles flails with frustration, because the more Derek talks, the less sense he makes. “Wow, okay, so, if I'm your guest and I can do what I want, what the hell was all the... _wriggling_ about? And don't try to bullshit me, you were trying to get a rise out of me, and I wanna know why!”

 

Derek goes pink, and Stiles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's getting a headache. “That was not meant as an innuendo, dammit!”

 

There's no reply from Derek, and the longer the silence draws out, the more angry Stiles gets. “What?!” he snaps finally. “What did I ever do to you that would make you humiliate me like that?!”

 

“I wasn't trying to humiliate you,” Derek says, and while he sounds genuinely contrite, Stiles is just too angry to back down now.

 

“Then what?! What was that whole display even for?! What were you trying to do?!”

 

Derek's face goes more and more red, and Stiles is just about ready to punch him when he finally speaks.

 

“Flirt.”

 

Stiles' brain grinds to a halt so fast he can almost hear the scratch of needle on vinyl. “Ex _cuse_ me?!”

 

“I was trying to flirt with you, okay?”

 

“Whu-” Stiles sputters. “That makes no sense. I've seen you flirt, I _know_ you know how, and _this_? I don't even know what this was!”

 

“I was trying...” Derek trails off and rubs a weary hand across his face. “I know you think my personality leaves a lot to be desired, but I... I know you like my... my looks. So I just... thought it would work better if I... took advantage of that.”

 

There is no word for just how mind-boggling that information is, and Stiles has to literally shake his head to kickstart his brain again, because it's pretty much frozen in shock.

 

“Why the hell didn't you just jump me?!” is of course the first thing Stiles blurts out. “After all the boners you've definitely smelled on me you couldn't possibly think I'd say no!”

 

“Arousal isn't consent, Stiles.”

 

“Then why not _ask_?! If you'd said ' _hey Stiles, wanna bone_?' I guarantee you the answer would have been _yes_!”

 

“You just acted like I'd been cursed because I tried to be sexy.”

 

“Pfft, like you ever need to _try_ ,” Stiles scoffs, but Derek does have a point, and now he feels slightly bad. Okay, very bad, not least of all because he probably just blew his chance of getting laid with Derek GQMF Hale. Fuck Stiles' life.

 

“But, uhm... yeah, so. For future reference I really do like your cranky personality,” he says, hoping to at least save their friendship after this absurd mess. “Your hot bod is just a perk, really.”

 

There's a long awkward silence where Stiles studies the carpet and hopes Derek will forgive him for being such an idiot, and he almost jumps when Derek finally speaks again.

 

“Hey, Stiles...?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“... wanna bone?” Derek asks, and it sounds like it physically pains him to say the words, but Stiles' whole face feels like it's about to split in half from the enormous grin he's sporting.

 

“Hell yeah.”

 

End.


End file.
